Chapter 17

"Wait!" interrupted Anita's voice.

Bill, who had just been about to take to his heels at the prospect of a chorus of powerful female Dilbian lungs shouting for help, checked himself just in time.

"Don't shout," Anita's voice went on, hastily. "You don't want to get the men all roused up and over here, and then find out that the Cobbly's gone before they get here, and there's no way of proving it was here at all. Cobblies don't bother us Shorties. Let me go outside and see if I can get a look at it."

There was no immediate response to Anita's suggestion. Bill turned back to glance in through the tear in the curtain. The assembled Dilbian females were sitting and staring at her. If she had proposed that she try to walk up the wall, across the ceiling, and down the other wall of the room, or casually suggested flying to the top of the cliffs that surrounded the valley they could not have looked more upset. The thought of anyone—let alone a female, whether native or Shorty—facing a Cobbly was evidently so enormous that it had rendered even No Rest speechless. But then that matriarch found her voice.

"Don't bother you?" she echoed, forgetting in her astonishment, to whisper. "But whatever—whatever—" words failed her in an attempt to state the concept of any kind of female world undeviled by Cobblies.

"Oh, we used to have something like Cobblies on our Shorty world," Anita said into the silence. "We had a different name for them, of course. But Cobblies and things like them don't like places where there's been a lot of building and making of things—you know that. You know they like the woods better than the villages and places like here, particularly in the daytime."

There were a few scared, hesitant nods around the circle.

"So our Cobblies sort of faded away," said Anita. "Just the way maybe yours will someday. Anyway, why don't I go outside and look?"

There was another long pause. But then No Rest visibly took a firm hold on herself. She sat up straight and spoke in a decisive voice.

"Very well, Dirty Teeth," she said sternly. "If you're not afraid to go out and look for the Cobbly, we'd all appreciate it very much."

"I'll look all around," said Anita, hastily getting to her feet. "But if I'm not back at the end of fifteen or twenty minutes, then you can always go ahead and shout for the men and torches, the way you were planning to do."

She slipped quickly to the door, opened it, and went out. To Bill, transferring his gaze to the outside, she appeared like a black shadow, slipping through the suddenly lighted opening, which was immediately darkened behind her as the door quickly shut again. The sound of a bar being dropped across it from the inside followed closely upon its closing.

Bill went toward her dark silhouette. She had come down the three steps onto the grass and was standing still—probably trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness outside. Bill came noiselessly up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.

She gave a sudden gasp—like a choked-off scream—and spun about so abruptly and violently that he backed off a step.

"W-who's there?" she whispered, in English. "Is that you, Pick-and—I mean, Mr. Waltham?"

"Bill, blast it! Call me Bill!" whispered Bill fiercely in return. "Come on, let's get away from here to someplace where we can talk."

Without a further word, she turned and began to move off along the building and through several patches of shadow until they came up against the wall of a long, narrow, almost windowless building that was completely dark within.

"This is a storage place—sort of a warehouse," said Anita in a low voice and turning to face him as they stopped. "There won't be anyone around here to hear us. What on earth are you doing in the valley here? Didn't you know any better than to come back here—especially at night?"

"Never mind that!" snapped Bill. He was surprised to find a good deal of honest anger suddenly bubbling up inside him. Here he had risked his neck to find her, and she was adopting the same irritating, authoritative tone she had taken with him on his first visit to the valley. It was the final straw upon the heavy load of frustrations and harrowing experiences which had been loaded upon him ever since he had set foot on Dilbian soil. "I'm here to get some straight answers, and you're going to supply them!"

"Answers?" she replied, almost blankly.

"That's right!" Bill snapped. "Since I saw you last, I've spent an educational fifteen minutes with our Hemnoid friend—with me tied to a tree during the conversation . . ." and he told her about his kidnapping and rescue of the day before.

"But you don't believe him!" exclaimed Anita, when he was finished. "Mula-ay's a Hemnoid! The authorities wouldn't send you here to get killed, just to get themselves out of a tough spot! You know that!"

"Do I?" said Bill, between his teeth. "How about the fact that I've been sent here to a job I never trained for? How about the fact the communicator wasn't working when I got here—oh, I found out what was wrong and fixed it . . ." he told her about finding the power lead disconnected. "But who knows how to use a power wrench? No Dilbian, for sure. That leaves you or Lafe Greentree as the only ones who could have disconnected it!"

"How about Mula-ay?" she demanded.

"Mula-ay doesn't control our relay stations and hospital ship computers. When I got it connected, all I could get was the hospital ship Greentree's supposed to have gone to, and the computer there wouldn't connect me with any live person, or give me anything but a bulletin on his health." Bill told her about his conversation over the communications equipment.

"But—" Anita's voice was unhappy, almost a wail, "it still doesn't prove anything! And the authorities don't want to close this project down! Don't you know what the name of the project itself stands for—"

"I know all right!" broke in Bill. "They told me at the reassignment center. `Spacepaw—Helping Paw from the Stars,' in Dilbian translation, because according to the Dilbians they're the only ones who have hands, and we Shorties have `paws.' " Bill laughed shortly. "Let's try another interpretation, shall we? Project Catspaw—with me as the `catspaw' that bails our Alien Relations people out of a jam on this world!"

"Bill, you know better!" said Anita desperately. "Oh, if you only knew how hard Lafe's worked here, you'd know he'd never have agreed to anything to close this project, let alone helping in making you the catspaw, as you say. It's all coincidence, my being here, and his breaking his leg—"

"Were you there when he broke it?" interrupted Bill.

"Well, I . . . no," admitted Anita grudgingly. "I was away from the Residency. When I got back, he hadn't waited for me. He'd already got a cast on it and called in, asking for transportation to a hospital ship—"

"Then you don't know for sure if he ever did fall and break it," said Bill grimly. "All right, maybe you can tell me what kind of a trick was used when this Half-Pint-Posted I keep hearing about beat up that mountain Dilbian with his bare hands."

"But there wasn't any trick! Honestly—" said Anita fervently. "Or rather, the only trick was that he used his belt. The Half-Pint—I mean, John Tardy—was a former Olympic decathlon champion. He got the Dilbian in the water with him, managed to get behind him and put his belt around the Streamside Terror's neck, and choked him. Outside of using the belt and the fact that he was able to maneuver in the water better than the Streamside Terror, it was a fair fight."

"Well, I'm no Olympic decathlon champion!" said Bill in heartfelt tones. "And if I was, how could I get a duel with swords and shield fought underwater? But I was set up for this duel with Bone Breaker in practically everybody's mind—Human, Dilbian, Hemnoid, and all—before I even got here—"

"But you weren't!" Anita was wringing her verbal hands. "Believe me, Bill—"

"Believe you? Ha!" said Bill bitterly. "You seem to be fitting in right with the rest of the scheme. Here you're supposed to be an agricultural trainee-assistant, but first you get the village females like Sweet Thing and Thing-or-Two all stirred up on opposite sides. Now I find you here stirring up the outlaw females. Why should I believe you any more than I would Greenleaf, or any of the rest who were part of getting me into this mess."

She made an odd, small, choked sound, and he saw the dark shape of her whirl and walk away from him for several paces before she stopped. He stared after her in some astonishment. He was not quite sure what reaction he had expected to his words—but it certainly had not been this. After a moment, when she still did not turn back or say anything, he walked after her and stopped behind her.

"Look—" he began.

"I suppose you think I like it!" she interrupted him without turning about, low-voiced and furious. "I suppose you think I'm doing it all just for my own amusement?"

He stared at the dark back of her head.

"Why, then?" he demanded.

With that, she did swing around to face him. He saw the pale oval of her face, gray in the dimness, without being able to read its expression. But the tone of her voice was readable enough.

"For a lot of reasons you don't even begin to understand!" she said. "But I'll try and make you understand part of it, anyway. Do you know anything about anthropology?"

"No," he said stiffly. "My field's engineering—you know that. Why, what do you know about it? Your field's agriculture, isn't it?"

"I also happen to have an associate's degree in cultural anthropology!" Anita snapped.

"Associate degree—" he peered at her. "But aren't you an agricultural trainee-assistant?" He strove to see her face, through the darkness. He felt bewildered. He would have been ready to swear that she was no older than he was.

"Of course. But—" she checked herself. "I mean, I am. But I've also been under special tutoring and an accelerated study course since I left primary school. For example, I've also got an assistant's certificate in pharmacy, and a provisional research certificate in xeno-biology—"

"Grk!" said Bill involuntarily, staring at her through the darkness. She evidently was, he suddenly realized, one of those super-brains customarily referred to as Hothouse Types back in college-preparatory school. Those students with so much on the ball that they were allowed to load up on half a dozen extra lines of study. Well, that was nice. That was all it took in addition to everything else that was making him feel like everybody's prize fool in this Dilbian situation.

"—What?" Anita was asking him puzzledly.

"Nothing. Go on," he growled.

"Well, I'm trying to explain something to you," she went on. "Did you ever hear of the Yaghan—a nearly extinct Indian tribe that used to occupy the south coast of Tierra del Fuego and the islands of Cape Horn at the tip of South America?"

"Why should I?" grumped Bill sourly. "And what's that got to do with the situation, anyway? What I want to know—"

"Just listen!" Anita said fiercely. "The Yaghan were a very primitive tribe, but they were studied by, among other people, a German anthropologist named Gusinde who wrote a monograph on them in 1937. Gusinde found out that the laws or the social rules of existence of the Yaghan were not enforced by any particular specific authority but by what he called the Allgemeinheit, meaning the `group as a whole.' But there had to be some individuals who spoke for this `group as a whole'; and these speakers were men called tiamuna by the Yaghan—and Gusinde describes the tiamuna this way—`men who because of their old age, spotless character, long experience and mental superiority gained such an extent of moral influence that it is equal to a peculiar domination.' "

Anita stopped speaking. Bill stared through the darkness at her. What relation this lecture had to the subject at hand he had no idea. After a moment he said as much.

"Well, haven't you heard the Dilbians talk about Grandfathers?" demanded Anita. "These Grandfathers are the tiamuna-equivalents among the Dilbians. The whole Dilbian culture is a strongly individualistic one—even more individualistic than our human culture. But it keeps itself stable through a very rigid system of unofficial checks and balances. It looks as if it'd be easy to introduce new ideas to the Dilbian culture. But the trouble is, introducing any new idea threatens to disrupt the existing cultural system of these checks and balances, and so the new idea gets rejected. There's only one way a new idea can be introduced and that's by getting a tiamuna—a Grandfather—to agree that maybe it's a good thing for Dilbians in general. In other words if you want to introduce any element of progress among the Dilbians, you've got to get a Grandfather to back it. And of course, the Grandfathers, because they're old and thoroughly entrenched in the existing system, are highly conservative and not about to give their approval to some change. But that makes no difference—if you want change you've got to find a tiamuna to speak up for it!"

"But there aren't any Grandfathers around here," Bill said. "At least there aren't any in the village, or in the outlaw camp, here."

"That's just it!" said Anita urgently. "Nearly all of the Dilbians live up in the mountains, where there are Grandfathers, and the Grandfathers do control everything. It's only down here in the Lowlands, where old tribal customs have started to relax their hold in the face of the different necessities of an agricultural community that there aren't any Grandfathers to deal with."

"But you said—" fumbled Bill, "that you had to get a Grandfather to accept your new idea before you could get the other Dilbians to accept it. If there aren't any Grandfathers around here—"

"There aren't any Grandfathers here," said Anita. "But there are tiamuna-equivalent individuals. Male Dilbians, who under the proper conditions up in the mountains, or at the proper age, would be Grandfathers."

"You mean," said Bill, his befuddled wits finally breaking through into a glimmer of the light of understanding, "someone like More Jam—or Bone Breaker?"

"Not More Jam, of course!" she said. "Bone Breaker is right, enough. But in the village, the closest thing they have to a tiamuna-equivalent is Flat Fingers. That's why I told you to get him on your side."

"But More Jam—" began Bill.

"More Jam, nonsense!" Anita said energetically. "I know all the villagers have a soft spot for him, and he carries some weight as the local innkeeper, to say nothing of his former glory as Lowland champion wrestler—Dilbians are very loyal. But him and that enormous stomach of his that he pretends can't stand anything but the daintiest of food—he's a standing joke for miles around. Remember, a leader can never be a figure of fun—"

"Are you sure?" asked Bill doubtfully.

But she was going on without listening to him. Bill's head was whirling. Just as he had seemed to hear a note of something incorrect in what Mula-ay had said the day before about Bill's not being likely to feel an empathy with someone like Bone Breaker, now he had just heard the same note again, accompanying Anita's statement about More Jam.